


Five times Andrés de Fonollosa didn't care (Plus the one time he did)

by ironcy



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24271891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironcy/pseuds/ironcy
Summary: Set in an alternate timeline with a very much alive Berlín who enlists the help of a very hurt Martín to free Río. Unfortunately for Martín, he isn't very sensitive to his feelings and needs.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 62
Kudos: 168





	1. Palermo

**Author's Note:**

> I've been enjoying reading and writing five + one lately and I have a bit of stuff laying around! (Because why wouldn't you write fanfictions the day before your finals exams? ;)) I just want some heavy heavy angst - because Andrés is an asshole - and some truly tortured Martín.  
> I always appreciate any constructive criticism or if you just want to talk to me yeS please I'd love to!

Palermo was truly not a terrible place to live in. Sure, the climate was quite different than what Martín had grown up with in Argentina, it was warm, often too much so. The humid air made his shirt stick to his skin and his brown hair lay flat and obviously, everybody spoke Italian or a Sicilian dialect – which had been difficult to understand at first, but he’d gotten used to it. 

So, Palermo wasn’t a run down city, it was quite beautiful in fact – the rich culture, the buildings, the exquisite cuisine (Martín didn’t understand how pizza from a street vendor could ever be considered an exquisite debauchery, but foreigners seemed to feel like the epitome of Italians when they held a slice in one hand, the oil and fat collecting on top as they searched for a place to sit down). Everything in Palermo seemed to be a magnet for travelers, so he had found an apartment as far away as he could from the most crowded locations. It could’ve been a nice place, albeit somewhat cramped, the living room and kitchen in one room, a small bathroom tucked away next to the bedroom. (In the monestary, his wardrobe had had the size of both the kitchen and bedroom together). 

It could’ve been a nice place, if it hadn’t been for the lingering smell of smoke (stepping outside to light a cigarette seemed to require significant effort these days) and the persistent stench of alcohol that never seemed to leave the small flat. Now, at eleven thirty am, Martín opened his refrigerator – some rundown model he’d gotten for a very cheap price (at the expense of not working properly, but it was fine, he could live off of canned food and lukewarm beer) – and found it to be empty, save a few bottles of alcohol and cartons of milk. With a small grunt, he unscrewed the cap of the first bottle – some cheap champagne that was disgustingly sweet and he had only bought because it was on sale (probably because nobody wanted to drink or buy anything quite as repulsive). Martín took a long gulp, shuddering slightly. Strawberries. Or, more likely, some chemicals that were supposed to taste like strawberries and had failed miserably, because the drink was absolutely horrid.  
“Fucking gross,” he commented, wiping his mouth and letting the bottle drop onto a pile of newspapers scattered across the ground.  
The ringing doorbell made him jump – every sound seemed to make Martín jump, he mused, even an ambulance speeding across the highway close to the fourteen story apartment building – but he didn’t know who to expect. It was Sunday morning, no mail – not that he got much anyways – and he had very few acquaintances in Palermo who knew where he resided.  
There weren’t many possibilities, but he hadn’t even considered Andrés among the list. Yet, when he tied his velvet morning gown around his waist and opened the door, he was staring at him, a small smile on his lips, as if all he had done was go shopping a few hours ago and now come back with the groceries.  
“Martín,” he said, tilting his head, his gaze wandering across Martín's figure until it finally settled on his face. “We need your help.”  
Martín felt an incredulous laugh rising up in his throat, getting caught halfway and turning into a dry cough that made his eyes water. He knew about the Mint, of course. The fucking Fábrica Nacional de moneda y timbre. Sergio’s plan, that Andrés had chosen over his own, gone through with – and miraculously survived, making him a rich man. But he hadn’t seen Andrés since that faithful day at the monestary. Since he had placed the had he had forgotten in Martín's room on his head, adjusted it and smiled one of those vicious and ugly smiles Martín had completely fallen for. Since he had made him feel bliss, for just a short moment, before tearing it all away and making him fall further than ever before.  
And now Andrés was here, raising his eyebrows at his pathetic coughs and attempts to catch his breath before he waved his hand in defeat and sat down on an old leather couch, one hand on his chest. Something in his chest roared, Andrés' appearance had lit a fire in his stomach. Anger. He wanted to wipe the grin off of his face. Yell at him, “How dare you come to me asking for help?”  
“What the hell do you want?” He asked instead. His voice was hoarse and he could feel Andrés' judging comments before he spoke them out loud. He’d lost weight since Andrés' had last seen him, his skin almost translucent and his hair thinner. It was almost possible to look straight through him, like a man made of glass. So brittle. Ready to burst at the slightest touch.  
Andrés, on the contrary, looked splendid, like a freshly blossomed flower in spring. In his needle striped suit he looked fabulously out of place in the dimly lit room, ravishing between the wafts of smoke that could’ve been cleared out if Martín only opened the small window. It reminded him of one of those photoshootings in the most pitiful and desolate locations, because even though the place stank like piss and vomit and rotten takeout food, Andrés managed to stand out, untouchable, not phased by his ugly surroundings. And like every good set there had to be a prop and Martín was that prop, because Andrés only shone brighter next to him. (Then again, hadn’t Martín always been a extra in Andrés’ life?)  
“I told you, I need your help,” Andrés said and stepped inside without being invited, straight towards the window and yanking it open. The cool breeze made Martín shiver and he glared at Andrés as if it was his fault he was cold.  
“We’re leaving in an hour, go on, get ready,” he snarled with an air of authority, tutting impatiently when Martín made no attempt to rise to his feet and change into something more appropriate than an old velvet bathrobe and boxer shorts.  
“You can’t just come in here and tell me we’re leaving,” Martín replied. “You can’t just step back into my life and expect everyth-“  
“I can and I did,” he interrupted his former best friend. “You’ve let yourself go, Martín.” He stepped so close Martín could smell his cologne. The aftershave he always used. It smelled expensive and very out of place. A few years ago, the familiar scent would’ve filled him with admiration and utter devotion, now it made him want to vomit onto Andrés’ black leather shoes.  
“I wonder why,” he said, his voice small.  
“So do I. What has happened to you, my dear friend?”  
Martín let out a scoff, turning away from Andrés' insistent gave. “Don’t give me that fucking bullshit. You left me,” he said, his voice bitter and resentful. “You gave me heaven and then you took it all away and said I should leave and get over it. Maybe that’s why you don’t have trouble divorcing your wives – are we already on number seven, I’ve lost track – but that’s not how love works,” he said, breathlessly. It was more than he’d spoken in quite some time.  
“How incredibly…” Andrés seemed to take a moment to think about the right word. How incredibly understandable, Martín thought. How incredibly cruel of you. How cruel. We could’ve gone on as friends for years, I could’ve lived off those few rare moments of affection. A small touch on the shoulder after a good joke. The laugh, that angelic laugh that lit up the room.  
“Pathetic.”  
Obviously.  
“Get up.” He obeyed. Of course he obeyed Andrés' sharp demand, rising to his feet clumsily and standing in front of the taller man like a convict ready to be judged. Andrés was sly and composed, his eyes narrowed at the other. The smart fox. Martín, on the other hand, a feral wild cat with rabies, a danger to others, who, maybe, someday with great luck somebody would have the mercy to put down.  
“One member of our group has been captured,” Andrés said coolly, unphased by the unresponsive Martín. “Now, I don’t care much about him – beginner’s mistake, allowing himself to be captured – but you know my brother. He’s all worked up about it.”  
“Well I don’t give a fuck! Not about you, not about that dumbass and much less about your son of a bitch of a brother!” Martín replied heatedly, but Andrés seemed to gloss over his words. “We need to use the plan.”  
Martín furrowed his brows, turning away to pick up the champagne bottle from the ground and taking a long sip. (He would’ve spit it out if it hadn’t been for Andrés, but he did want to retain a certain dignity). “The gold plan. Our plan.”  
Now, Martín actually laughed in his face. “Why, have you become suicidal these days? Because isn’t that what it is? A suicide plan, eh?”  
“It was a good plan, but it wasn’t good enough. We can make it better. But Sergio and insists on having you involved… And frankly, I don’t know any other engineers.”  
“Fuck off.”  
“I thought you loved the plan,” Andrés tilted his head in an infuriatingly arrogant stance as he took the bottle from Martín’s hands and chuckled. “I didn’t know you liked… 'Bubbly Champagne with ninety percent strawberry flavor.’ I guess you’ve changed quite a bit. Although…”  
He trailed his fingers across the long-necked bottle. “I suppose it fits the image of a feminine faggot better, don’t you think?”  
Martín was caught off-guard, flinching. Maybe, he thought, Andrés wasn’t aware that words were like knives. No, he added on a second thought. Knives can miss your femoral artery. Knives can be dull. Words don’t miss and they can’t be taken back, either.  
“I’ll see you downstairs,” Andrés said calmly, as if he didn’t doubt Martín would follow him. It was his plan after all. His pride and joy. 

“Oh…” He placed the bottle on the ground almost delicately.  
“And do clean yourself up, Martín. You’re revolting.”  
Obviously, Martín followed Andrés.


	2. Florence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm truly not that happy with this chapter- for some reason I find it incredibly difficult to write authentic dialogue.   
> The comments I got on the last chapter made me so happy, thank you, thank you - you'll be getting more dick Andrés and suffering Martín today. Iif anybody has any specific wish on how to torture Martín, do let me know. ;)   
> I'm also a sucker for references soo... There are a lot.  
> I also survived my first finals exam so my writing and thoughts might just be a mess, but anyways, enough of the rambling - enjoy!

Once, the grand monastery had appeared beautiful. Standing out from the green landscape, the brown, tall bricks rising up into the sky and almost touching the clouds. Courtyards filled with laughter and chapels full of respectful silence.   
To Martín, it bore more resemblance to a Gothic novel now. The flickering candle light wasn’t welcoming and warm anymore. The sound of heels and shoes on the marble floors sounded foreboding to him, like the faint rumble of thunder before a devastating storm. No, to Martín it would’ve been a fitting set for a Holmesian horror story and his room the madman’s room in Edgar Allen Poe's short story. Because Andrés had been cruel enough to lead him to the very room he’d kissed him in and Martín had noticed an old bottle of wine – his old bottle of wine – in the corner, dusty and untouched. But he hadn’t said anything – because what was there to say? Oh, please, I can’t stay in this room any longer. You ripped my heart out in here, but it’s still beating like that old man's in a The Tell-Tale Heart and it just won’t shut up, Andrés.

He got on with the rest of the gang well enough – although he was sure the majority – especially Tokyo – disliked him with a burning passion. They disliked his sneering attitude, the way his lips curled into a knowing smile when Nairobi was washing the dishes or doing her laundry, the implication always obvious. That’s where you belong, bitch.   
Sure, he’d had a few friendly, albeit short talks with Marseille and Bogotá, remembering old days, forcing himself to laugh and smile, but he preferred keeping to himself – unless it wasn’t possible.   
Like dinner, for instance. He knew the members of the gang were wondering why Sergio tolerated his drunken stupor at midday, leaving class sporadically to smoke a cigarette outside or simply not attending. Sure, Sergio had introduced him as one of the leaders of this plan – a fact Tokio very much disliked, especially after his comment. (“Better be thankful, your little toy would be behind bars for the rest of his life if it weren’t for me. Do try to not loose him next time.”)   
But dinner was an exception. Sergio insisted they sat together at each supper, which they took turns preparing in groups of two. Martín would’ve rather bit his tongue off than admit that Andrés' was without a doubt the best chef on their team and his dinners always promised an exquisite taste and exotic ingredients. Today was one of those special days – Alfredo fettuccine with a small salad as a side, served outside. Sergio had managed to convince the monks that long, sturdy tables were a good investment and they seated the entire gang, including Stockholm’s son Cincinnati.   
“It’s amazing,” Tokio said, in spite of her dislike of Berlín, but to her credit she’d turned to Lisboa to compliment her.   
“I barely did anything. He’s a real control freak in the kitchen,” Sergio’s girlfriend replied. Martín’s lips curled into a smile, as always when he thought about Raquel Murillo – she’d probably had to teach Sergio how to use a condom when they were making love.   
Making love. Martín despised the euphemism – he didn’t want to make love when he had sex. That implies some kind of… attachment. Obviously, there had been any exception – with Andrés he wouldn’t have minded using that childish, cowardice expression for fucking. But no, Martín didn’t want to make love, he wanted to let loose, he wanted to be satisfied and then he wanted to forget. 

Maybe it had been the alcohol that had made his tongue loose today. He took a sip from the glass of red wine, setting it down delicately next to the plate.   
“Do you know what the best kind of sex is?” He began, folding his napkin onto his lap.   
“Oh dear, here we go again,” Tokio muttered under a sharp curse that sounded a lot like “fucking misogynist.”   
“Homosexual sex. It’s not even that difficult to explain, you see…” Martín raised his eyebrows, turning his fork in the almost untouched food. It was delicious and he was starving, but Andrés had prepared it and that thought made his stomach turn. He didn’t dare glance his way – he was sitting a few seats further on the left.   
“Oh, please, Palermo. Just because you’re gay doesn’t mean women can’t have fun,” Nairobi interrupted him. “Maybe you think it’s fun and satisfying to barely manage five minutes because your standards are incredibly low.”   
“Hear, hear’” Lisboa added with a small smile, tilting her head.   
“No, gay sex is better… Listen, things always get complicated when emotional attachments are involved. And women can’t help it; I’m not saying it’s their fault, now, that would be misogyny, my dear Lisboa...”   
A small chuckle interrupted his speech and Martín felt blood rise in his face, certain his cheeks had gone as red as the wine in front of his plate. For the past few weeks, they had been ignoring each other. The gang knew they had met before – but Martín was egocentric and so was Andrés, so it was perfectly logical for them not to get along.   
“What, too sexist even for you?” Tokio questioned and Berlín composed himself, a sly glance at Martín.   
“What? Oh, he must be joking, right?” Andrés asked, an amused smile playing on his lips. Martín cleared his throat. It felt tight, like every breath was being cut off.   
“He… wasn’t joking?” Andrés managed to looked surprised, his eyes widening. What a disgusting display of acting, Martín thought, feeling sick to his stomach. He could’ve handled being ignored by Andrés and likewise pretending he didn’t exist, but for the first time, Andrés seemed to notice him.   
“That’s… That’s a bit surprising.” Andrés was such a cruel man. He had Martín under his control, he could snap his neck with just a word, humiliate and degrade him in front of the entire gang and by the looks of it, that was his plan. Martín wasn’t sure when he’d become a toy for Andrés, another mere distraction – or maybe he had been for a long time and simply failed to realized in his love blind stupor. Hadn’t minded Andrés' jokes, even at his expense.   
Under the tablecloth, Martín’s hand closed around his napkin, crumpling it up in his fist and avoiding the curious glances of the gang. They were praying on him like vultures on a dead body, eager for any gossip about the new, mysterious man they’d met only a few dozen days ago.   
“You see, I’ve known our dear Ma- oh, excuse me, Palermo for quite a while.”   
He’d almost dropped his name, that son of a bitch. Sergio appeared startled for the first time, his gaze wandering between his brother and Martín. How much did he know? Do you know what an asshole your brother is? Do you know what he did to me?   
He felt his heart thud against his ribcage in anxious anticipation, squeezing the napkin in his hand.   
“Well, I surely must’ve misheard then,” Andrés continued smoothly, all eyes focused on him as he lifted his glass of wine to his lips and sipped it slowly to increase the dramatic effect. He’d always been quite good at that.  
“Wasn’t he talking about… what was it, no emotional attachments? Because I assure you, Palermo is quite the opposite.” The reveal was fun to him, his grin reaching his eyes.   
“He’s quite… Submissive. Devote, even. Not what you’d expect from a man at all.”   
Martín froze while the rest of the gang watched Andrés intently. Stop this. Stop this madness, he thought, but he felt as if he were glued to his chair and Andrés' lips because rising to his feet seemed damned near impossible.   
“Emotional. Very emotional, like some kind of pregnant woman,” he snickered and Tokio let out a small laugh, turning to Martín smugly.   
“Who would’ve thought, the big and strong Palermo, a shameless bottom,” she said sweetly.  
“If you heard his moans I’m sure you would think he was some kind of whore,” Andrés continued. “He sounds like a girl.”   
“That’s quite enough, isn’t it?” Sergio finally, mercifully interrupted Andrés' taunting, raising his eyebrows at his brother.   
“Just a bit of friendly banter… No need to get upset, my dear,” Martín pursed his lips. He didn’t like what Andrés had revealed – he didn’t understand and the space was suddenly filled with awkward silence so thick he was sure he could slice through it with a knife. 

“What the fuck was that shitshow?”   
Martín had found Andrés in the chapel, admiring the colorful and stained glass on the windows and ornate details on the ceiling but he didn’t hesitate to interrupt. The creature in his chest that was his anger was screaming, filling him with heated madness.   
“What the fuck where you thinking?” He added, wishing he could back Andrés up against the wall and close his fingers around his throat until the other was begging for mercy. But the cool, composed look made him stop in front of the other, panting. Feral Martín and tamed Andrés, as always.   
He had the audacity to reply with a confused “What do you mean?”   
“I mean dinner, you son of a bitch.”   
“Oh… You’ve been ignoring me,” Andrés scolded him. As if he were a school boy who’d been late to class.   
“And that’s what I get for ignoring you? I thought that was what you wanted!” Martín replied heatedly, anger flashing in his eyes. “Did you enjoy humiliating me in front of the gang? The people who’re supposed to listen to my calls and won’t he able to keep a straight face because they think I’m submissive?”   
“Aren’t you? You’ve always been around me.” Andrés stepped away from the window to face Martín fully, his lips parted slightly as if Martín’s anger surprised him.   
“And I didn’t enjoy it. That would be ridiculous. I don’t enjoy talking about the weight of gold or which temperature it melts at either. Those things are simply facts to be stated.” He paused for a brief second and Martín was sure he could hear his heart beat like a rapid cannon.   
“I told you, Martín, you’ve been ignoring me. I needed to get your attention somehow and it was quite successful, wouldn’t you say? Although I have to admit… I’ll certainly cherish the look on Tokio's face when she found out you sound like a woman.” He smiled at the memory, closing his eyes, probably to picture it once again.   
“What do you want?” Martín was too tired to argue. The exhaustion had dug itself onto his face, carving deep rings underneath his eyes and leaving his skin pale and clammy, his eyes red. “Because it sure as hell sounded like you wanted me to ignore you back then.”   
“Oh, please… That was years ago.” Andrés rolled his eyes, stepping so close Martín could smell his cologne. “Don’t you understand why I left you? To protect you. So you could finally move on, Martín, so how about you show a bit of gratitude for once in your miserable life.”   
“Frankly, I don’t understand,” he hissed, an ugly remark on his tongue. “No, I don’t understand at all. Why couldn’t we have gone on like we did? I never wanted anymore than your friendship, but your brother had to come along and ruin what we had.”   
“Leave Sergio out of it,” he replied sharply. “It was painfully obvious how head over heels your were for me. You were like my pet, Martín, my tamed and docile kitty. So lovesick, so vulnerable… Hell, if I asked you to jump off a cliff you would’ve done it without even thinking.”   
Andrés' gaze hardened and although he wasn’t much taller than Martín he felt small. Andrés was looking down upon him without any doubt.   
“Which is why I did what I had to. It was a favor, really,” Andrés said, tilting his head. “Although it seems… You haven’t managed to move on, have you.”   
He touched Martín’s cheek and he actually flinched, pulling back immediately. “Tell me what you want,” he said, his anger completely faded to a dampening sorrow. The kind that makes you hear through cotton. The kind that Martín would’ve liked to drown in a bottle of wine.   
“I want… The plan to succeed.”   
He shouldn’t have hoped, he truly shouldn’t have had a glimmer of hope Andrés was actually going to say he wanted Martín to he alright.   
“It will succeed,” he choked out, his voice dangerously close to breaking, averting his gaze and stepping up to the window. Out of Andrés’ reach.   
“It won’t succeed if you keep acting like an insufferable child!” Andrés snapped, turning around to follow Martín. He was uncomfortably close and Martín backed into the wall like he had many years ago – but this time not in arousal and disbelief, but in anguish.   
“You’re a middle aged man, start acting the part,” he added sharply and Martín let the small whimper that had been caught in his throat escape, his chest tightened and breathing was so much more difficult.   
“Tears, Martín? Tell me, how far have you fallen? What happened to the man I once knew, how did you let yourself go that much? It’s pathetic,” he said softly, almost sweetly.   
“I’ve told you once and I will tell you again – get yourself together or I swear I will not take you into the Bank. I’ll take the credit for the plan. So stop sulking and step up.”   
With a last stern glare Andrés turned around and stalked out of the chapel, nonchalant, his hands in the pockets of his suit trousers as if the confrontation hadn’t happened. 

Martín's shaky sigh turned into a choked up sob and he let himself sit down, leaning onto the wall. Damn you, Andrés. Damn you. If you left me alone, maybe this could have worked. But you’re not sprinkling salt into the wound, you’re grabbing the knife by the handle and turning it to tear me apart completely.   
He wanted to cry – at first, shortly after Andrés had left for good, he’d been ashamed when tears left salty trails on his cheeks and mingled with the bitter bile he spit into the toilet after a particular bad night of drinking, but with time, he’d started caring less and less. Nobody was going to hear him in that stinky small apartment that was so beneath him, or if a neighbor heard his deranged howls through the paperthin walls they simply wouldn’t care. So Martín let the tears roll down his face, wiping them with his sleeve occasionally until his head throbbed and his eyes dried, leaving him to stare blankly at that ugly window Andrés found so beautiful.


	3. Florence II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goood evening good evening and welcome to 'How will I torture Martín today?'   
> It's funny how when you're supposed to be doing something else (like studying math) you're starstruck with inspiration and the need for angst. Gah, so much angst.   
> I hope I can shatter a few more souls and hearts. Also, I'm extremely had at writing from a drunk Martín's perspective because I've never been drunk (Now, don't get me wrong, that doesn't mean I'm thirteen I'm very much legally allowed to drink). So, would he be able to have complex thoughts? Probably not. Does he anyways? Hell yes.   
> No need to make any mysteries, next chapter is hungover Martín.

Over the years, he had built up somewhat of a high tolerance for alcoholic beverages. When other people started saying they’d definitely had enough, Martín could barely feel the buzz he do desperately craved – so it was definitely an advantage of living at the monastery. The other members of the gang were rich people, as were the hosts Sergio and Andrés, so they provided plenty of drinks. The alcohol was also of finer quality than what Martín had been able to afford – so occasionally he would tag along to the supermarket to ensure they replenished their supplies. (At first, he’d just trusted Tokio would bring enough on her own – she did fancy a drink or two every night – but it soon became painfully obvious all she would buy was Tequila and an occasional Vodka. One night, Martín had found a bottle of champagne on his nightstand and turned it to read the label, realizing with horror it was strawberry flavored, a bubbly party drink. He knew immediately who had told Tokio what kind of alcohol he supposedly liked and apparently, it had amused her.) 

But not even a regular drinker was immune to the effects of one, two, or three glasses too many. Martín set down the glass of red wine – he did still have some class, he decided, he didn’t drink straight out of the bottle. At least not this expensive dry red wine. Of course, he’d been aiming for this feeling. The drowsiness that slowed his thoughts and filled his limbs with heavy numbness, that made his reactions sluggish and each step uncoordinated. He found himself needing a few minutes to simply rise to his feet, holding on to the edge of the dark mahagoni kitchen table to balance his weight until he could finally let go.   
A voice made him flinch and he turned his head – Nairobi. She’d been outside, probably, smoking or having a drink herself after dinner was over, but he didn’t care to join in so he’d come inside to empty the bottle of wine instead (Sergio had probably been saving it for a special occasion since Martín had found it tucked away in the back of a cupboard. But Sergio was a millionaire and he wasn’t; so he might as well drink it.) “Palermo, you smell like a brewery,” she said and wrinkled her nose when she stepped closer, ignoring his scoff. Nairobi didn’t really seem surprised – then again, why would she be? He’d been drinking daily, showing up to class already drowsy and had been reprimanded by Sergio for vomiting out of the window of their car on a trip to the supermarket after a particularly bad night. (At least he hadn’t thrown up onto Tokio’s lap, because he was sure he would never have heard the end of that.)   
So, Nairobi wasn’t surprised when she discovered a more than tipsy Martín. On some days, a bit of drowsiness was enough, but on others he wanted nothing more than to forget, just for a while. To not be reminded of Andrés’ constant presence – even if he wasn’t in the room it felt as if he were hovering above Martín, ready to strike. A sketch, hung on the wall he’d made. A forgotten bowtie on the kitchen table, or the steps of his confident strut outside of his room. He was always there.   
But after a few drinks, that didn’t matter as much. How was he supposed to think about Andrés when it was difficult concentrating on Nairobi's voice?   
“What’re you gonna do when we get into the Bank?” She questioned, tilting her head. “You do realize it doesn’t have a wine cellar, don’t you?”   
She was talking as if he were some kind of idiot, as if he didn’t perfectly well know that his alcohol supplies were limited during a heist.   
“Let that be my worry,” he snapped back, his vowels slurring only slightly. He couldn’t solve any mathematical problems he needed for his work as an engineer, but he could still talk perfectly fine, so there, Martín thought. Take that, Nairobi. Fucking lightweight.   
The second side effect of drinking was much welcomed.   
When he was drowsy enough, stumbling into his bed – usually without even bothering to undress, brush his teeth or shower – it only takes him a few minutes to doze off into a deep, uninterrupted slumber. Unlike when he’s not drunk, but fully aware of each miniscule twitch and sound. Sleeping pills – Martín had tried them before, but the buzz wasn’t nearly as pleasant and it made him feel vulnerable and exposed. Easy to take advantage of.   
“Anyways…” Nairobi whipped back her brown ponytail and wrapped her long fingers around the green bottle, like a spider, taking a sip straight from it, because unlike Martín, she didn’t seem to have any shame at all.   
“Disgusting,” she commented, making a face when she swallowed the wine. “I don’t understand why you drink stuff like that.” She paused, a smile spreading across her thin lips. Her lipstick smeared when she took a sip, now the corner of her lip was a dark shade of pink.   
“Unless you think we won’t take you seriously if you drink that champagne of yours.”   
“Fuck _off_ ,” Martín scowled. “Why don’t we put it in the fucking newspapers? I didn’t buy it. Or drink it.” His eyes shone with anger, but his words were sluggish when he managed to form sentences and he was dizzy, so he sat on the table instead of the chair, too much height difference would have made him feel like a subordinate.   
Her previously challenging gaze changed, he noted, it turned softer – which Martín did not appreciate. He didn’t want to be pitied, there was absolutely no reason to.   
“You know…” Nairobi sighed softly, taking another swig from the bottle although she’d criticized the wine's taste.   
“We’re all curious. I like mysteries, Palermo, and you certainly are one. Do you really think nobody notices how you look at him?”   
Maybe she thought she could exploit a very drunk Martín to puzzle together who he was. Martín frowned, clearing his throat (he felt bitter alcohol burn in his esophagus and swallowed thickly) and turning his head to face Nairobi. She’d crossed her arms in front of her chest and raised her eyebrows at him and he gave it away immediately.   
“It’s none of your business what happened between Berlín and me,” he snapped sluggishly, realizing his mistake a few heartbeats later. She never mentioned Berlín. Nairobi smiled smugly, untangling her arms and reaching for the empty green bottle to place it into the sink. The brief thought of whose turn it was to do the wash up crossed his mind, then Martín returned his attention to her. He hated Nairobi, he hated her spiderlike elegance, the way she had looked right through him and realized there was indeed a connection between him and Andrés. And he hated her determination – she wanted to know now. Like a bloodhound who’d picked up on a wounded creature’s scent, she’d picked up on their relationship and she would do everything to solve the mystery.   
“Good night, Palermo.” She was gone in a wink of an eye. Or perhaps Martín had just dozed off for a few seconds and not noticed her leaving through the open door. 

Had the kitchen and his bedroom always been as far apart, Martín pondered, leaning against the wall until he dared take the last steps to his room, opening the door on the second try and stumbling inside. The few corridors had taken him long minutes, but he’d made it – and tonight he would be able to fall asleep quickly.   
He wanted to reach out for the chair at his desk to pull himself onto his bed, but Andrés made him freeze and lift his head.

_That bastard_.   
Andrés had seated himself on his messy bed (he didn’t really bother making it every morning) and crossed his legs, a book on his lap. Martín recognized the book that he had been reading – a small collection of scientific papers he’d been skimming through to aid with the gold melting plan. He’d left it next to his bed, but Andrés' respect for personal space was non-existent.   
“What are you doing?” He was drunk, but not drunk enough to realize he had certainly not invited Andrés into his room. Obviously, Andrés didn’t answer his question. He always preferred setting up his long monologues, like in a play, the tragic hero, the main star.   
“You’re going to be terribly hungover tomorrow,” Andrés began. Martín sat – on the chair in front of his desk, as far away as he possibly could. He coughed wetly, swallowing down a mouthful of bile, because he wouldn’t vomit in front of Andrés.   
He closed his eyes to ease the nausea that spread in his stomach and rose in his throat, letting out a shallow breath of air that turned into a small whimper.   
“What do you care?” Martín finally responded. He could deal with hangovers. When he was young, in Buenos Aires, he had kept count – with a group of friends – who had the highest number of horrible days-after-drinking. They’d been able to count them with their own two hands, although he had won (the prize had been a bottle of cheap whiskey. Figures.) Keeping track now would be a lot more difficult. Alcohol had been his constant – and only – companion during those long years of solitude and at times, the bottle of wine on the couch had almost felt like a friend. Like somebody he welcomed to see. (The next day while being sick into the toilet, or onto the floor if he didn’t care enough to rise to his feet, he’d cursed that friend.) But Martín had plenty of experience with hangovers – there wasn’t a way to ease the nausea or exhaustion, the throbbing temples and unbearable moodiness. He’d wait it out and then he’d go back to drinking.   
So advice, _thank you very much_ , was completely unnecessary.   
“Nairobi has been snooping, Martín. She’s been talking to me and I saw her go into the kitchen to talk to you, so tell me, what did she want?” Andrés asked, his cool gaze resting on Martín's slouched figure. The way he had wrapped an arm around his abdomen (in the futile illusion it would calm his churning stomach) and closed his eyes.   
“Information. About us,” maybe he wouldn’t have answered had the red wine not ripped down whatever barriers he had left. Torn down his gates like a bulldozer and left him defenseless, vulnerable – and completely at Andrés' mercy. 

A fleeting image, a sensation crossed Martín's mind. A similar situation that had occurred years ago, when life was still bearable. They’d been at a bar – but not one of those rundown little pubs in the corner of a street where the cigarette smoke was so thick you could slice it with a knife and the bartender was oggling the way-too-young girls giggling in the back – no, one of the expensive, classy places you had to dress up for. And he had! He’d adjusted Andrés' tie before they had entered through the doors, keeping his hand on the other's shoulder for just a moment too long, but Andrés had only smiled one of those knowing smiles before adjusting Martín's collar in return – “Martín, it’s caught in your cravat, let me get that for you.” Martín had gotten drunk off a strong whiskey, while Andrés always practiced careful reluctance – Martín wasn’t sure whether he didn’t like loosing control (although it was likely) or because alcohol didn’t mix well with his medication (again, probable). But back then, Martín hadn’t minded Andrés guiding him out of the bar, quite the opposite – it was bliss, leaning against the other, feeling Andrés’ tight grip around his waist as he stumbled ahead and into the taxi he didn’t recall Andrés had ordered.   
Andrés had allowed him to lean his head onto his shoulder during the ride and told Martín to close his eyes, being very sweet about the whole ordeal, even when Martín had turned his head to vomit and stained his suit. (He may have a high tolerance for alcohol, but he’d always been bad at holding his liquor. And even worse at seeing or feeling it coming.) Andrés had just sighed, placed his hand on Martín’s cheek so he was facing him and wiped his mouth with a tissue, apologized profusely to the cursing taxi driver and paid an extra three hundred dollars for the cleaning bill, then lead Martín to bed after ensuring he’d had a glass of water. 

Now, nothing of that tender affection remained. Just the cold stare that felt like an x-ray, able to see straight through his tough façade. (Oh, who was he kidding? Everybody could do that.)   
“Martín, have you decided to treat me like a normal human being again? And not like a pet that can be neglected at will?” Andrés questioned, tilting his head. “I thought I made it perfectly clear I wanted you to forget what happened between us. Move on! Find a nice boy to have fun with instead drooling at me.” He smiled slightly. “I gave you a few weeks and yet you still ignore me. And I don’t like being ignored, Martín.”   
“You started,” Martín replied, opening his eyes to see his opposite. “Not talking to me for four years… Isn’t that ignoring?”   
Usually, Martín at least attempted to talk Castellano, remembering to use 'you', not ending every sentence with the obligatory 'che' and not mixing his grammar and words, although occasionally he added a small idiot. He took special care around Andrés – he always noticed, as he did now.   
“Just because you’re drunk doesn’t mean you have to go speak like an Argentine. Your accent is too thick to understand,” he added with a small sneer. It had always aggravated Andrés when Martín started talking in what he called complete gibberish.   
“But that’s not what I’m here for.”   
“What’re you here for?” Martín asked, his voice faint. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and finally doze off into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.   
“Nairobi told me how drunk you were and I know how bad you are the next day. I don’t mean the whininess, although that certainly is annoying,” Andrés sighed softly, lifting his right hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Dramatic pauses were one of his strongest suits.   
“But you’re aware we’re sharing a bathroom, aren’t you?”   
Yes, it was rather hard to miss. The same constellation of rooms like they had had years ago – adjacent bedrooms with a bathroom in the middle. Andrés had spread his products across the sink and shower and the cupboard was full of glass vials with his medication (they were so tempting to smash) and one-use only syringes, an abundance on painkillers (Martín had recently taken one of Andrés’ and felt sluggish and drowsy for the rest of the day, but at least his headache was gone. Since then, he’d started sneaking them regularly and seemingly, Andrés hadn’t noticed yet) and a plethora of bandages. The only free space left was occupied by Andrés' aftershave and cologne, so Martín left everything on his desk, including his toothbrush, which seemed unnecessary, but it still felt intimate, more intimate than they were now.   
He always waited to shower or use the bathroom until he was certain Andrés had left his bedroom since monks seemed to have seen no need for actual functioning locks or doors thicker than a sheet of paper.   
“Anyways,” Andrés cleared his throat and finally rose from Martín's bed. The book he had placed on his lap fell to the ground and he did lean to pick it up and place it next to Martín's pillow, furrowing his brows at the chaotic state of his bed and room. (Martín wasn’t one for much order, his folders and the countless blueprints weren’t nearly organized like Andrés' and his wardrobe certainly wasn’t color-coded like Sergio’s surely was. It had always exasperated Andrés to no end.   
Martín moved his tired gaze, belching sickly (which promoted a look of disgust on Andrés’ behalf) and trying to comprehend the other man’s words. It was becoming increasingly more difficult as a sudden stab of nausea and vertigo distracted him and made him recoil, his hands clenching to fists. His skin had already been pale before, now it was translucent, making his cheeks more gaunt and his face more hollow. If Martín were to audition for The Walking Dead he was sure to get a part without being in make-up for hours on end.   
“Anyways,” he repeated. “Clean up after yourself, for God’s sake. And air out the bathroom. Or go vomit in the garden, frankly, I don’t care – as long as you steer clear of the rose bushes – but the sound of your choking is really not something I want to wake up to.”   
He chuckled softly. “Would it be very cruel to ask Sergio to have morning classes tomorrow? Oh, don’t worry – if you behave I won’t.”   
He moved his index finger to his thin lips, shhhh, Martín, don’t you dare disturb my sleep and Martín nodded, because what was there to say, truly?   
Andrés gave him a smile that seemed almost genuine, a slight raise of his eyebrows when Martín opened his mouth as if to say something. But his mind was blank and all he wanted was sleep.   
“I hope you can get a bit of rest, Martín,” Andrés turned around to leave the other’s room.   
“You’ll need it.” 


	4. Florence III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what time it is? Martín torture time! I sincerely apologise-   
> I know this is shorter than usually, but I don't like artificially stretching things if it makes sense?   
> Maybe Andrés does have a heart after all. Maybe.

He hadn’t thought of the trash can.   
Martín woke with an impending and foreboding sense of doom. It was early, birds were being fucking annoying outside, tweeting their stupid sounds, but he couldn’t hear any hustling or laughing from the courtyard, which meant it wasn’t breakfast time yet. (Not that he ever joined in, but there were always a few people eating together. Sergio made a point of it, as did Stockholm and Lisboa.)   
After Andrés had left the night before Martín had crawled onto his bed fully clothed and lost consciousness after only a few minutes, so obviously he hadn’t thought of emptying the trash can full of abandoned blueprints and ideas to use it as a make shift vomiting bucket. So he wouldn’t disturb poor Andrés' beauty sleep, or make him shower later. (He must have some form of OCD, Martín sometimes mused, for his rituals couldn’t be delayed even by half an hour.)   
He rose to his feet unsteadily and swallowed thickly – which proved to be rather difficult, the nausea was rising in his throat, but he couldn’t bolt to the bathroom, his knees were buckling and he felt dizzy. The room was spinning, so Martín closed his eyes and let out a miserable groan, but when he blinked it still hadn’t stopped turning.   
Andrés was – thankfully – not in the bathroom at the moment Martín pushed the door open with his left hand, the right held in front of his mouth; he kneeled down on the cold tiles (it was always cold in the monastery. In summer, that was quite an advantage, but in the early hours of the morning it made him shiver and recoil) and coughed. It hurt, Martín thought and like every time he woke up with a hangover he swore he’d never overdo it again – a comforting lie. Still a lie, after all, he knew full well it wouldn’t be a week before he was huddling in front of the white porcelain of the toilet, waiting to be put out of his misery.   
With a small grunt, Martín positioned himself and opened his mouth with the desperate desire to finally vomit, inclined to jam his fingers down his throat for a brief moment before he reconsidered. Too much moving, too much effort. Instead, he felt a desperate laugh on his lips. How truly and remarkably pathetic. There he was, making fancy speeches, making an effort to play a charade of somebody that had once been him, but Andrés strolled in and made him weak, made him beg.   
He didn’t remember every word – but Martín did have the sinking suspicion yesterday hadn’t gone in his favor. He squeezed his eyes shut, the floor uncomfortably hard and his knees aching from kneeling, then opened his mouth, feeling bile drip into the toilet. It made a sickening sound that provoked a small gag, his stomach giving way to what burned as if it was pure alcohol.   
Martín was drowning – or this felt like what he imagined drowning to be – as he leaned over the toilet and desperately retched, feeling tears mix with bile and sweat. He interrupted himself to breathe, sucking in short breaths of air like an athlete on the last few meters of his marathon, surpressing a cry of pain. It sounded like the howl of an injured animal instead, his chest rising and falling rapidly, making his breath hitch and for a moment he was sure he was dying, he was choking, his nose and throat filled with vomit, unable to breathe.   
Until he felt a firm hand on his nape, forcing him to hold his head low and a second hand that forced him to open his mouth with a spluttering cough.   
“ _Spit_ ,” Andrés ordered, his voice cool and composed, as he always was. An antithesis to Martín, who had managed to catch his breath enough to turn his head.   
“What the fuck are you doing,” he groaned, panting, each word catching in his wound throat. Martín tasted coppery blood in his mouth. Complete and utter garbage made up by the media. Blood didn’t contain any copper at all, it was iron that made the stench metallic and unbearably nauseating.   
“Originally I wanted to shower, it’s six thirty. But now I’m saving your life instead.”   
“Fuck you, fuck _off_ ,” Martín lifted his head and reached to flush the toilet. He felt beads of sweat drip down his pale and clammy skin and exhaled slowly before finally relaxing his tense figure slightly. Andrés, likewise, removed his hand from Martín’s neck and pursed his lips in disgust.   
“You’ve made a proper mess of yourself, Martín,” he sighed, kneeling down next to him. “I thought I’d told you not to.”   
It was beyond Martín why Andrés had seated himself next to his slouched figure. Pathetic. He could feel the stare, the exam of his pathetic and miserable state and stiffened in anticipation of Andrés' reaction. Martín waited for the anger that was so unlike his own, firy and hot contempt – Andrés' anger was cool and quiet. Andrés' anger was like a cobra, poised and ready to strike at any moment, but waiting, unflinching and unmoving, hot making its presence known.   
To his surprise Andrés only let out a small sigh, touching his temples as if he were the one with a throbbing headache and shaking his head.   
“I don’t know what we’re going to do with you, Martín. Are you done?” He added, his lips curling in dismay. Martín nodded. An unpleasant sensation of queasiness remained, but he’d be able to swallow down whatever his stomach wanted to expel and his throat felt too sore to take another round of burning alcohol.   
“Wonderful,” Andrés muttered, ripping off a piece of toilet paper and forcing Martín to turn his head so he could wipe the corner of his mouth and his lips.   
Martín actually let out a whimper, being pitied by Andrés, being babied felt far worse than anything the other had done in the few weeks at the monastery. Being given the illusion that Andrés cared, although his eyes were cold and he rose to his feet immediately after, turning to the sink to wash his hands as if he were a surgeon before an operation. (Disinfecting himself of _Martín.)_   
“Now, listen, Martín, because I’m not going to tell you a fifth or sixth time,” he said sharply, although Martín had thought he was going to leave. Instead, Andrés turned around and dragged him to his feet by his upper arm.  
“I’ve had enough of this bullshit. What are you trying to achieve with your petty behavior? Do you have to sulk like a child in the corner who’s been told there’s no dessert?”   
He sighed slightly. “Imagine if everybody who’s been turned down acted like this.”   
“You didn’t turn me down!” Martín finally regained his voice, although his words were hoarse. “You gave me everything I wanted and then you took it all away, son of a bitch. You have got no idea where I fell. None at all. You’ve got no idea what you did to me and you don’t give a flying fuck about it, Andrés.”   
He interrupted himself to catch his breath and Andrés used the moment to interrupt his angry outburst.   
“Well what the hell was I supposed to do? Let you, a grown man, tail me for the rest of my life?”   
“Yes!” Martín swallowed harshly. “We were a good team. Good friends. I never would’ve… Changed anything.”   
He was crying. He felt the salty tears on his cheeks, the small sobs that he choked down with more effort each time they threatened to escape his throat.   
“But you left. You left me. Didn’t you know how much it would hurt?” He whispered and Andrés raised his eyebrows.   
“My dear Martín…” He touched Martín’s shoulder, his cheek and Martín froze, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. “We humans have truly remarkable abilities no animals share. Which is precisely what makes us different, what entitles us to slaughter lesser beings. Which makes us special, which makes us the greatest of them all.”   
He smiled a teethy smile, chuckled softly at Martín, who seemed stunned, frozen on his feet and in the moment.   
“And do you know what that ability is called? It’s called the ratio. The Latin word for reason. So, use that pretty little engineering head of yours and imagine…” He exhaled deeply. “Imagine that moment that let you feel happiness. Think back to the kiss, Martín…”   
He laughed quietly, brushing over Martín’s shoulder. “We could’ve been great, you know. If the thought of your penis didn’t repulse me quite as much.” He shrugged as if to say no biggie, it happens.   
Martín swallowed, his thoughts wild. Andrés, Andrés, Andrés. He wanted to hate the other, he’d promised himself to hate the other but now he found himself still falling down that bottomless pit of love. It would truly be merciful to finally crash and snap his neck, but that was a mercy he didn’t seem to deserve. Hearing Andrés talk was revolting and yet he wanted to back him into the wall and kiss him, show him that he wasn’t repulsive, that they could be amazing if Andrés just forgot about his sexuality for a moment. They could’ve been so much.   
Could have.   
“So, just imagine the kiss. Picture all of the details, Martín – that should be more than enough for you. A small treat for my loyal puppy – although he’s been quite disobedient lately.” Andrés brushed over Martín's cheek with a trembling hand. “I’ll have to potty-train him again,” he lowered his voice and pushed Martín towards the door. “Shoo, shoo. I need to shower.”   
When Martín returned to his room, he felt worse than he had before vomiting. 


	5. Madrid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening to everybody who's clicked on this and wow so many hits okay- I get so excited when people comment so thank youu you make me feel better about my writing! (Which I'm still self-conscious about but not as much!)   
> Anyways, enough of the rambling- I've duly noted that most of you want to see Andrés take a beating. Very much considering making another 5+1 story with 5 times Martín takes care of Andrés and once the opposite, let's see.

The streets were bustling with tourists, pushing against each other, making it easy for the pickpockets to slip their hands into open purses and pockets unnoticed. Not even the dreary, humid air could stop the steady flow of shoppers, although to Martín the air felt too heavy and oppressive.   
He stepped away from the window, letting the depressingly dark red curtain fall back into its place to hide the happy passerbys and commuters.   
They could’ve surely afforded a hotel like the Westin Palace Madrid, but Sergio had insisted on keeping a low profile – which was, admittedly, for the better. No need to be filmed by too many of the cameras that were hidden in the most eccentric places – beneath fake rocks in a park, in a bird’s nest outside or integrated into the wall of a hotel room. Instead, Andrés had decided on a small motel a few tram stops from the National Bank, much cheaper and much less convenient.   
After they had arrived, Martín had checked the minibar for whatever drinks the cramped, dark room had to offer – aside from a small bottle of whiskey and some softdrinks it had been depressingly empty, which Martín considered to be a problem.   
The problem had arisen when Sergio had asked to speak to Martín and Andrés about the inside job – they had to enter the Bank at least once before the heist, find the hidden cameras, get a feel for the place and see the security guards and how they’d react. (Sergio did consider himself a master of prediction, Martín thought with an amused scoff.) It was their plan – Martín needed to spy out technical details, but Andrés insisted on going inside (“My dear brother, whom do you trust more?” He’d asked with a sickly sweet smile), so obviously Sergio had sent the two of them on a short excursion to Madrid. Since the monastery was in Florence, they couldn’t travel to Spain and back in one day, hence why he was stuck in the motel with Andrés. And even worse – they were sleeping in the same room. Andrés had insisted on it being the best cover and Martín's blood had froze when he realized what it was. He wants us to fucking pretend to be a couple. They didn’t even need a fucking cover, nobody knew who they were, but he’d insisted on it – for what? For delivering the final blow?   
Martín sighed softly, sitting down on the bed next to the window and lighting a cigarette. He exhaled deeply, watching the wafts of smoke fill the room because he knew it would bother Andrés greatly. Indeed, when Andrés returned from the bathroom he furrowed his brows.   
“Stop that, they’ll charge us extra,” he said, flicking the cigarette out of Martín's hand and pinching it out between two fingers.   
“Which would be a huge fucking problem considering you’re a billionaire,” Martín replied drily, muttering a soft curse under his breath.   
Andrés left his reply uncommented, sitting down on the other bed opposite the window and regarding Martín with an infuriating curiosity.   
“What?” Martín snapped after a few minutes of awkward silence. If he’d had the choice he would’ve jumped up and fled the room as quickly as possible – but he didn’t have any choice. This stinking motel didn’t even have a bar he could get wasted at and the shot of whiskey in his room (which was way too expensive for its size) wouldn’t even be noticeable.   
“Accompany me to dinner, won’t you?” His tone wouldn’t have allowed for Martín to decline the offer, thank you very much, but I’ve already got a date, so he rose without further questions and followed Andrés outside.   
It had started to rain, not a sudden, giant downpour but a steady, cold drip of raindrops splashing onto the sidewalk. The hustling streets were now empty, save a few people hurrying to take cover, clutching bags full of cheap clothing and the occasional groceries and Martín regretted only bringing his leather jacket. Andrés, on the other hand – clad in a needle striped grey suit, extravagant as always (Martín sincerely hoped it wasn’t a fancy restaurant, for he was wearing jeans and a striped shirt underneath his black leather) had an umbrella, but he didn’t offer for Martín to huddle close. Right, the cover isn’t that important.   
“Where are we going?” Martín found the silence to be too uncomfortable. Sure, it wasn’t truly silent – the air was filled with a plethora of ambient sounds – cars honking obnoxiously, the steady beat of rain, his shoes squeaking on the wet ground – but Andrés had stayed silent and only hurried along, the sense of purpose all present.   
“Italian restaurant. Just down the block… It’s nothing fancy, so your dreadful outfit it fine,” Andrés replied, his lips curling into a smile as he turned the corner into a small street.   
“Right up there,” he added with a small smirk, pulling Martín closer, one hand on his shoulder. “Remember the cover, darling. Do you think dinner would be free if I said I was going to propose tonight?”   
He let out a bright laugh, turning to Martín. He’d stayed silent – each word slit through his skin and right through his heart. How dare you. How dare you tease me about my love.   
“Shut up, son of a bitch,” he choked out, which promoted Andrés to stop. Martín was soaked, the steady raindrops had gone through his leather jacket and he was shivering – Andrés on the other hand – dry and untouchable. He scowled slightly, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.   
“Oh, Martín, don’t curse at me, it’s not impressive. Why? You think it won’t be free?” Andrés chuckled, then finally, mercifully, stepped aside to let Martín enter into the restaurant. He’d been right – it wasn’t one of those fancy establishment Andrés liked so dearly. It smelled like old smoke and alcohol when he pushed the squeaky door open, entering and shuddering when he peeled out of his soaked jacket.   
Andrés smiled wisely when he entered, his eyes searching for a free table. Martín pointed to the back and headed there immediately, feeling Andrés’ warm breath on his neck. He seated himself, hoping he could order the strongest alcohol there was as quickly as fucking possible.   
“Listen, Martín.” He had hushed his voice and the genuine concern made Martín curious, so he tilted his head and waited for Andrés to continue.   
“You’re behaving as if I don’t care. As if I don’t care about you, my best friend.”   
“Have you considered the possibility… because you don’t? You don’t care, Andrés, you made that perfectly clear,” Martín replied, pursing his lips. He didn’t want to have another talk, not in this gloomy, rundown restaurant which salt sprinkled across the table nobody had bothered to wipe down.   
“Oh, please. What I did… It was for your best. You liked me too much. You still think about me too much.” Andrés wet a tissue with his spit to wipe down a sticky spot on his side, something must have spilled, probably a lemonade or a sticky sauce.   
“For my best? Are you fucking delusional?” Martín raised his voice slightly and nobody cared enough to turn their heads in their direction, but still, when he continued, it was hushed.   
“You enjoyed it. I don’t know if you enjoyed the kiss, but you enjoyed the aftermath – you liked how incredibly in power you were, how you had finally proven that I would do anything for you and that I was at your mercy, no matter what happened. Just because your son of a bitch of a brother decided he had to get fucking involved,” he added, clenching his teeth.   
He was interrupted by the waiter, a tall-legged slim man who was pale enough to make Martín's ghostly features seem healthier.   
“What can I get you to drink?” He asked, scribbling down Andrés' to order (a glass of red wine) and Martín's (a dry whiskey).   
“That’ll be your only alcoholic beverage today,” Andrés cleared his throat. “You’ve been overdoing it lately.”   
“None of your goddamn business.”   
“Oh, but it is! Do you really think it’ll be a good idea to go through withdrawal during the gold heist?” Andrés chuckled softly, thanking the waiter who’d brought their drinks.   
Martín took a sip, letting out a curt sigh.   
“Are you still in love with me?”   
His breathing hitched and Martín almost flinched, staring at Andrés. He was still smiling at him, raising his eyebrows as if he’d asked if his whiskey tasted good or how the weather was today.   
“What the hell do you want to hear? That I spent four years in misery because the only person I cared about in the whole fucking world left? And I had no idea what had happened, you could’ve been dead. Wanna hear how I cried myself to sleep, eh? How often I woke up covered in my own sick because sleep just comes when I’m drunk enough to pass out?”   
He laughed, a shaky laugh, clearing his throat.   
“And then you return, Andrés and the first thing you do is call me a faggot.”   
Andrés smiled all the way through his speech, unnerved as always, although Martín noticed a twitch of his eye, a trembling hand. Then again – it could’ve simply been the myopathy.   
“You care so much,” he said almost affectionately. “And you still care so much. If you didn’t… You wouldn’t try and drink yourself to oblivion every night. Martín, you’re truly a lost cause. And that’s coming from me, somebody doomed to die within the next few months. But when I die, I’ll die in peace…”   
He sighed quietly and took a sip from his wine. “But you still haven’t answered my question. Do you love me, Martín?”   
He felt his mouth go dry and swallowed harshly. It was a cruel question to ask – because Martín had just listed all the reasons to hate Andrés.   
Yet, he couldn’t. He was infatuated by Andrés' smile and laugh, drawn to him like a pathetic little moth to the light. Like a small, hungry fish to the predatory angler fish, luring in victims to devour. He loved Andrés, he loved him so much he was killing himself. He couldn’t hate Andrés, no matter how hard he tried – he couldn’t.   
“Tell me,” Andrés repeated, his smile fading. “Or have you developed feelings for fatty back at the monastery? You’re not very discreet, you know.”   
“No, I don’t care about Helsinki,” it was no use denying it. Nor did it matter – Raquel was sleeping with Sergio, Stockholm and Denver had a child together and as far as he knew, Tokio and Río had been a couple as well. So he did feel entitled to at least relieve himself of his pent up tension and anger without having to explain it.   
“Tell me. Tell me you’re in love with me. I want to hear.”   
“Why?” Martín asked, his voice breaking. “Why make me do… Does it make you feel better about all your failed relationships?”   
“Ah, don’t try to go all Freudian analysis on me. Just say it.”   
Martín nodded, his hands closing around the glass until his knuckles were white, blinking, because he wouldn’t cry. He felt too tired to cry or to lie. It was no use, so he simply nodded.   
“I want to hear you say it,” Andrés said, all the kindness gone from his voice. It was just cold, cold, cold like ice but it burned like hell. What irony, Martín thought briefly, before he opened his mouth. Those dooming words. He’d never told Andrés those evil words that would’ve destroyed their friendship. Turns out, it ended anyways.  
“I love you,” he said and felt his voice tremble.   
Andrés looked at him smugly, like a cat that had cornered a mouse.


	6. Madrid II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I survived my math finals and finally I managed to finish this story. Although I admittedly don't like the ending too much I don't want to keep you waiting much longer. I'm also gonna write more for these two, maybe a direct sequel to this after the heist, but I'm not sure yet, to be completely honest. I feel like I've made Andrés a bit too evil at times (to be with Martín. I do think he's a generally horrible person and would treat Martín horribly). I also read other people's work and they are so much better at dialogue and characterizing them and ah - I'm insecure about this ;w; I still hope you enjoy and let Andrés redeem himself just a tiny bit!

In a few seconds, it had all gone to hell.

He should’ve said 'I present, Tokio, she’s in charge here, I’m a mere puppet, not worthy of anybody’s attention and not a target you should be aiming at' – but instead, he’d offered himself to Gandía like on a silver tablet and not even the inch thick Kevlar vest had prevented the shot from injuring him. How should it have? Gandía wasn’t dumb; he was the chief of security of the largest bank in Spain – he hadn’t aimed for Martín's heart, he hadn’t aimed for his head, he had aimed for the glass vitrine next to his face – filled with trophies that looked like they were being dusted daily. No cobwebs or fine grains of dirt here, no sir, not in here. The impact had knocked the shards of class backwards and unfortunately, Martín was in the way, letting out a muffled howl when he felt the first pieces pierce his skin. Whatever he had experienced before – and he had been in tremendous pain, he remembered a car accident – he’d run a red light, drunk, been hit by a truck and his small car had flipped. Martín remembered laying on his back, unable to get up – like a bug that had fallen off a leaf or a branch, wiggling its pathetic legs although it would never be able to turn around on its own accords. He remembered the taste of metal that filled his mouth – blood – and the overwhelming panic of having to turn his head to not choke. That was nothing in comparison to having glass jammed into your eyes, as it turned out. His first feeling was a fear he’d seldomly felt. Pure, stomach turning and gut wrenching fear when he forced his eyes open and saw red and black smears instead of the ceiling before he was forced to squeeze his eyes closed. It resulted in a guttural cry as the small shards pierced deeper into his eyeballs, through the thick cornea (what a fucking disappointment of a protection) and into the vulnerable white flesh, making Martín grunt in pain. Voices. Cotton. Martín moaned, letting out a sharp breath between clenched teeth, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He felt the familiar taste of blood on his tongue, staining his yellow teeth and something warm was running down his face. Cuts. Sharp. He wasn’t able to form coherent sentences anymore when he felt the voices come closer – he still only heard them through cotton, dangerously close to loosing consciousness. God, please, make it stop, make it stop, make it black. Martín wanted nothing more then to succumb to the merciful black, but – his luck – he jolted awake, finding himself moving. This was rather strange. Why the hell was he moving? He moved his lips and opened his mouth, blood spilling down his chin and felt a heavy hand – surprisingly gentle – turn his head to spit, accompanied by another long-drawn cry that barely had anything human to it. “Hey, Palermo, stay with me.” Ah. Helsinki had scooped him up – which would’ve been humiliating in normal circumstances, but these circumstances weren’t normal and Martín couldn’t reply with anything but a mouthed 'It's her fault'. Had Tokio reacted just a bit quicker than her normal sluggish self, Gandía couldn’t have turned and fired at him, resulting in whatever the hell had happened to his eyes.

“God fucking dammit, get out of the way, prepare a stretcher,” he heard somebody snap. Female. But he couldn’t remember who it was. Or couldn’t tell. Although the voice did seem familiar, almost soothing, like a little kid's lullaby and it was damned well on the way to put him to sleep – before a sudden movement and a hard surface under his back made him forget everything else except for the stabbing pain. Martín gasped, coughing, a few drops of blood dribbling down his chin and the hand turned his head to the side.

“Open your eyes.” No. No, please.

“Palermo, open your fucking eyes,” somebody hissed. Tokio. He did recognize that snarl and forced his eyes open, met with a blurry mess of colors and a wave of pain that prompted a small grunt – although he did contain a pained cry to save some of his dignity. “I can’t… Can’t keep them open for long. I can’t,” he choked out and gave in to the pain, closing his eyes. Tokio’s sharp nails dug into his cheeks and held his head down on the stretcher – he reckoned it was a stretcher – roughly. “Alright. “ With determined pressure, she forced his left eye open by pulling the eyelid apart with her thumb and index finger. Each nail felt like another shard of glass penetrating his skin and Martín winced, trying to squirm free from her tight grip and close his eye. “What’re you doing,” he managed to say between heavy breaths, feeling nausea settle in the pit of his stomach. “I’m gonna save your fucking sight, so stop complaining.” He hadn’t been complaining, but it was Tokio, so she’d always read a negative connotation into the most innocent of questions.

“Oh, and how to you plan on doing that? Have a degree as an optician we haven’t heard of?” Martín snapped, letting out another long-drawn whimper that would’ve made him turn scarlet red otherwise. Now, it only promoted Tokio’s grip to tighten on his face, although she’d mercifully allowed his eyelid to sink over the butchered eyeball. “I’m gonna take the glass out,” she announced like the fucking lunatic she was and Martín barked out a sharp laugh he immediately regretted, for Tokio disliked being the butt of a joke and he felt the gun jammed down his throat.

“Shut the fuck up,” she hissed, her voice cutting like a blade as she forced the gun so deeply down his throat Martín considered she was trying to suffocate him. He gagged, coughing and desperate for air until finally, she pulled back the gun. “What is going on here?” Andrés asked sharply and he was close; Martín heard the timbre of his voice next to his face and felt his warm breath on his face. “How the hell did you let yourself be injured by a few pathetic security guards? When you’re in the majority?” He was talking to Tokio, he’d turned away, but he was back after a mumbled reply – Martín couldn’t hear what she’d say, he just wanted until Andrés bent over his face and latched on to the first part of Andrés’ he could feel. His weak grip closed around Andrés’ wrist in a futile attempt to pull him closer and whimper a pathetic “Make it stop, make it stop.” To his surprise, Andrés didn’t tease him this time – maybe he was finally hurt enough for Andrés to care, for he leaned closer.

“I will, Palermo. I promise.” Unlike Tokio’s touch, Andrés was gently when he trailed his face although when he touched the glass, Martín let out a soft cry. “I am going to take out the glass on your face.” Tokio hissed angrily when Martín didn’t refuse this offer and he was sure she’d stalked off – or maybe Andrés had ordered her to. He’d said something, hadn’t he? It was agony. Martín felt a cold sensation against his face – the tweezers Andrés was using to dig underneath his skin and pull out a shard of glass that was dripping with his blood and whatever other fats, prompting a guttural scream. Martín was thankful Tokio hadn’t stayed – he didn’t want her to hear him cry out in agony. Andrés was gentle, he even apologized before removing a shard from the inner corner of his right eye, but that didn’t make it any less agonizing and Martín resisted the urge to beg to die, beg for some form of mercy Andrés was unable to give. Eventually, it came in the form of loosing consciousness – which Martín considered to be the best thing that had happened in their abysmal bank.

“Palermo. Palermo.” A disheartened sigh, then a firm pressure on the side of Martín's cheek – he squirmed away, it was warm and he already felt entirely too hot, feeling beads of sweat leaving salty trails on his face and burning upon contact with the small cuts.

“Are you really not awake or do you just not respond to being called Palermo?” Another small sigh, then the hand trailed from his cheek to his forehead, remaining there for a second.

“In your defense, you’re probably delirious. Nobody thought of bringing a thermometer but you are burning up. Do you think we could try trying an egg on your skin?”

Martín opened his mouth and groaned softly, feeling bile rise in his throat. He’d always thought the term sick of pain pretentious – how the hell could you possibly be in enough pain for your stomach to protest and then itself upside down – now he understood, opening his mouth to let bile spill down his chin.

“Ah, shit.” Andrés – he knew it was Andrés, he’d recognize the voice even half asleep – was closer now, one hand behind his head to hold it straight, holding a bowl underneath his chin so he could vomit without staining his red overall.

“C’mon, Martín, it’s alright. You’re not vomiting blood, no internal damage,” Andrés waited until Martín tried pushing away the bowl, then let his head sink back onto the pillow. Wherever the hell he’d found that. Slowly, Martín managed to form coherent thoughts, opening his eyes but stopped by a blinding, sharp pain – he only saw black this time, letting out a small, panicked breath.

“I’m fucking blind,” he rasped.

“I can’t see, Andrés, I-“

“It’s just a bandage. I’m not as useless as Tokio and I did a good job. It’s art.” Martín felt Andrés' fingers trailing across his cheeks once more, then resting on his forehead. “Can you manage some water?” Martín shook his head and to his surprise, Andrés didn’t insist. “Martín… Stay awake now. You’re fever is very high and I don’t want to take any risks,” Andrés said quietly and Martín heard him shuffle away, speaking from further. He couldn’t understand what he was saying – none of that heightened senses bullshit was true, he remarked. He felt a wet, cool rag on his forehead and let out a relieved moan. Martín was sure he’d never felt anything more heavenly before, the cold against his hot, clammy skin.

“You like that? Good,” Andrés turned the rag onto the other side, starting to wipe down Martín’s cheeks and taking care to avoid the small cuts. Martín hissed like a wounded cat, recoiling whenever he did touch an aching spot, but Andrés’ gentle touches were bliss. His fingers were soft, unlike Helsinki's, who’s calloused touch had always felt rough against his skin, but Andrés' hands weren’t marked by years of hard labor. Artist hands. He would’ve been a good pianist with the long, slender build of his hands. “My brave Martín.” Andrés cupped his face and Martín wishes he could’ve opened his eyes and looked up at the other. He wanted to hate his touch, hate him, but he couldn’t. No, he was still head over heels in love with Andrés and the other knew. But today, he didn’t tease. Today he only praised him for his valor and strength. For how long he had managed to hold out with the immense pain.

“Why are you like this?” Martín asked in a moment he wasn’t high from painkillers or deliriously mumbling from his fever. “Like what?”

“All nice. It suits you.” Andrés laughed and Martín knew he’d thrown his head back and closed his eyes like he always did. “Do you truly think I don’t care about you? Well, you’re mistaken. I do.” “You go a bit rough on me sometimes, y’know. Unnecessarily.”

"If I didn’t, you’d never have picked yourself up.” “That’s a horrible reason.” He should’ve been angry at Andrés, but that would’ve required too much effort. “But it’s a reason,” Andrés replied and Martín only sighed in response. For now, he’d enjoy Andrés' docile behavior. He’d enjoy how he praised his bravery and caressed his face and dipped the rag in cold water to bring down Martín's temperature. Tomorrow, Martín knew, everything would be back to normal – tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, the day after. But for now… For now, he’d let Andrés mother him. For now, he’d indulge in the fantasy of Andrés caring about his wellbeing.

Just for a little longer.


End file.
